


Day 4: Grey Ships

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bard gets sick, Bard is mortal, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Sailing To Valinor, Thranduil doesn't like it, Undying Lands, loose interpretation of the Valar's laws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard falls ill, Thranduil overreacts, and a plan is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 4: Grey Ships

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveActuallyFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/gifts).



> wrapping up the four days of birthday fics for LoveActuallyFan with a happy ending to make up for the sadness I brought on you all yesterday.

It had been nearly fifteen years since the battle for the Lonely Mountain. The years had been kind to Thranduil— the evil that had festered in Dol Guldur for three centuries had been banished and the Greenwood had begun to thrive again in its absence. Life had returned to the Woodland Realm and peace had existed between Men, Dwarves and Elves. 

The years had not been quite so kind to his mortal lover. Though Bard often blamed the grey of his hair on the dragon Smaug, grey hairs were not the least of the changes time had brought upon him. Bard was now nearing fifty years of age and, though he was still a child by elven standards and young enough by the years of dwarves, men seldom lived to be older than seventy.

How cruel it was, that _dwarves_ of all things should live longer than a child of Ilúvatar. 

The sun had just begun to rise over the rooftops of Dale, but the frost had already begun to melt in anticipation of spring. They were preparing for the celebration of the Equinox, though Thranduil had long dismissed the need for pretence when he and Bard wished to visit. The air was warm and the the streets of Dale were damp from the nighttime rain as Thranduil walked among them in the shadows of the sunrise.

“My Lord,” Tauriel appeared suddenly at his side, nearly out of breath and with a look in her eyes that set Thranduil’s heart to ice. “Come quickly. The king, he is not well.” 

Thranduil felt his face go pale. “How can that be? I left him not an hour ago!” Surely death did not come so suddenly upon men, even if they had lived nearly half a century.

“Please, My Lord. He is in the Great Hall. He asks for you.” Tauriel set off down the street in the direction of the Great Hall. He stood there a moment, suddenly cold in the early morning shade. He allowed himself a brief moment of panic before he hurried after Tauriel, the red of her hair whipping around the corner ahead of him.

 Thranduil burst through the doors of the hall, newly made since the resettlement of the city. And luckily so, for their strong wood only barely withstood the force of Thranduil’s terror as he wrenched them open. Bard sat at the head of the long table in the centre of the room, otherwise empty but for Tauriel where she had stationed herself some distance away. 

“Bard,” Thranduil was at his side in an instant, kneeling before him as he lifted his weary head from its perch in his hand. “Bard what is it? What’s wrong?” Bard focused on him slowly and then and frowned. Valar, was he so far gone already that he did not recognize him? Was the race of men truly so fragile that they could sink to such depths so quickly?

The most pitiful sound filled the hall, scratchy and groaning and desperate and coming from _his_ lover. His mortal lover. Had he pushed the thought of Bard’s mortality so far from his mind that he did not notice he had fallen ill? “I feel awful,” Bard’s voice was thin, weak and cracked as if he had been screaming throughout the night and into the morning. 

“What can I do?” 

“There’s nothing you can do,” Bard closed his eyes again and Thranduil reached up to hold his face between both hands. His skin was warm and balmy and that was _not_ normal.

“Surely there must be something,” Thranduil argued. “You are not so old yet!” 

Bard frowned and another pained whimper scratched at his throat. “Thanks, love.” He pried his eyes open again. “Where’s Percy?” 

“Percy?” Thranduil’s temper flared. Percy was even older than Bard was! He— a simple peasant with no family left to speak of— would outlive a king? A king who still had children to rely upon him, who had love still to give? No. Eru was cruel indeed if he took Bard from him and left such a lonely man in good health for so long. 

“I am here, my Lord.” The old man bustled into the hall and Thranduil levelled him with his fiercest glare. The man put down a cup of spicy tea and a bowl of steaming soup on the table as Bard groaned again as he sat up. 

“Thank you, Percy.” 

Thranduil watched as Bard began to swallow the soup and tea gingerly. What in the name of Eru was going on? He turned to Tauriel, looking sheepish from her station by the wall. “What are you doing?” he asked Bard.

“I told you, I feel awful. I’m eating soup.” 

“What will soup do?”

“Not much but keep me warm, in truth.” 

“And the tea?” 

“It’s herbal,” Percy piped up from the far side of Bard’s chair and Thranduil threw him a withering look. Perhaps it was a healing tea? Had the healing arts of men remained so stagnant even after thousands of years? Surely there was more that could be done than _tea_. 

“Tauriel, ride for the forest. Call our best healer, tell her to come at once.” 

“I don’t need a healer,” Bard croaked. 

“Don’t be daft! You have a family and a kingdom to watch over! You cannot die now! Surely there is more that can be done. Tauriel, _the healer_!” 

“I am sorry, my Lord, I fear I may have—“ 

“What are you on about?” Bard’s eyes were wide with confusion when Thranduil turned to him again. “I’m not dying! Do you truly think me so fragile?” 

“Yes!” Thranduil’s voice had all but risen to a shout, and it echoed in the cavernous hall. “ _Tauriel_ —“ 

“I’ll be fine,” Bard’s hand was pink and flushed from holding his cup of tea when he grasped Thranduil’s knuckles. A small smile had spread over his face and mirth was alive in his eyes. Thranduil frowned. “It’s just a cold.”

♔

Bard recovered from his _cold_ within the week. Thranduil returned him promptly to his bed and did not allow him to leave until his fever broke on the third day. He complained, as he was wont to do, but he sank easily into the Elvenking’s embrace when darkness fell, and Thranduil used what small magic he had available to him to ease his breathing through the night.

Tauriel was sheepish and pink for the remainder of their visit. She finally gathered the courage to say something when they had finished packing for their return journey. “I apologize, my Lord. I did not mean to worry you so. I only thought that—“ 

“Tauriel. You have been with me now for over a thousand years. You have become a strong and capable elf under my watch and care. You are captain of my guard and I count you among my family.” Tauriel said nothing, only looked hesitantly up from her feet as Thranduil mounted his elk. 

“Yet you are still sorely lacking in tact, discretion, and self- control. You are old enough now to conduct yourself with the dignity of our kind and of your standing. You will remain behind. Keep a close watch over the king and his family, and return immediately with any news you deem worthy of my knowledge.” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

With that, Thranduil urged his mount forward, leading the small travelling party away from the city of Dale and towards their own wood. 

He began preparations as soon as he returned to his own halls, sending messengers to Galadriel and Elrond. He sent a messenger to the north, where his son had settled among the Dúnedain.

He returned to the city of Dale within the month with nearly a hundred of his own people pulling carriages and provisions for a month’s journey.

“What is the occasion?” Bard asked when he met Thranduil’s party on the steps of the Great Hall. “You look as though you’ve come prepared for a grand celebration.” 

“We may celebrate once we’ve reached our destination.” Thranduil dismounted and climbed the stone steps to stand before the King of Men, took his face between both gentle palms and kissed him tenderly. “I have missed you, meleth-nín.”

“Aye, I’ve missed you too,” Bard kissed him again, more insistent but chaste, ever aware they had an audience. “But what is the occasion? The season’s change has passed and I see no reason for festivities.” 

“Such is not my intent, my love. We leave for Rivendell at first light.” 

“Rivendell? Whatever for?” Bard’s smile accentuated the heavy lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Thranduil studied him for a moment. He was changed, but not so much hat he could not see in him the same man who had slain a dragon and survived a fierce battle all those years ago. He was a king now, but the Bowman shone through the ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes. 

Thranduil sighed. This would not be easy. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

♔

It took most of the night, but Thranduil was finally able to convince Bard to ride with him to Rivendell, and after that to the Grey Havens. The man had grown even more stubborn over the years, Thranduil noted— yet another of the unhappy effects time had brought upon him.

He had insisted his place was there, in Dale, with the people of the lake and with his children. The words had stung, for was Bard’s place not also by his side? Would Bard not ask the same of him, if their positions had been reversed? Thranduil had grown fond of the stubborn man— more than that. Somewhere between diplomacy and easy jokes made at the expense of dwarves, Thranduil had fallen in love. He could not be parted from his love a second time— he would not survive it. 

And so Bard had agreed, on the condition that his children be brought with them, that their kingdoms continue the truce they had forged, and that Thranduil stop fussing and obsessing over his health once they reached the Undying Lands. Of course Thranduil had never intended to part Bard from his children, but he agreed to these terms with a kiss and a relieved smile. They were able to find a few hours of rest before the sun rose and their party was made ready for departure. 

Tilda and Sigrid were thrilled at the prospect of living amongst elves. Thranduil’s people had told them tales of the Valar and of the ancient spirits who dwelled beyond the shores of Middle Earth. But Bain insisted upon staying. He had become a fine man, and Thranduil thought him very brave to stay and rule in his father’s place. It was honourable, but Bard had been near furious. There would be no changing Bain’s mind, however, and it was with a heavy heart that they rode west, eyes looking back even after they had lost sight of Dale, of the broken city of Esgaroth, and the Lonely Mountain. 

Their spirits lifted as they travelled and it was with a great feast and much laughter that they were welcomed to Imladris. Thranduil could see the sadness lingering in the corners of Bard’s smile, even as his daughters and the elves laughed and carried on around him. Thranduil said nothing; only grasped his hand where it sat on the table and pressed a kiss to his fingers. 

The road was long and when they left the hidden valley their company had doubled in size. Autumn had fallen again when they reached the western shore, and the leaves of Mithlond were cast in stunning shades of yellow, orange and red. A strong and steady wind carried them forth into the Gulf and they started across the Great Sea. 

“Will we be allowed entry?” Bard asked him as they sat beneath the stars on their third night at sea. “I thought mortal men were banned from the Undying Lands.” 

“I have faith,” Thranduil said. “The men of Númenor craved immortality. They were never meant to sail west, but they were greedy and it brought their own destruction upon them. The Valar will see that your heart is pure.” 

“And if they do not?” Bard settled against Thranduil's chest and pulled a blanket across their laps. 

“They would not be so unwise,” He said as he traced the lines of grey in his lover’s hair, “for I come with an army of Silvan Elves. They are loyal and dangerous, and they would follow us wherever we bade them.” 

“You don’t really mean to wage war on the Valar. Do you?” Starlight shone in Bard’s eyes as he studied Thranduil in the cool night. 

Thranduil smiled and bent to ease Bard’s frown with a kiss. “No, Meleth-nîn. But I would do anything short of it if it meant I could keep you with me.” Bard seemed satisfied with his answer, stole another kiss from Thranduil’s smiling lips and relaxed into his gentle embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> so, I know simply sailing to the Undying Lands doesn't make you immortal. I was going to include a bit about Thranduil asking the Valar to make Bard and his children immortal, but I sort of wore myself out with this one.  
> I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> [you can still submit a prompt!](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask)  
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil) for the stories I write.  
> my progress can be tracked on [my WriMo novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or [my tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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